


Escape

by LeoDios



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Airplane Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 16:57:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9666983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeoDios/pseuds/LeoDios
Summary: It's happened before. A version of this. Two seasons ago. Going back home from their Champions League victory, he'd slipped into the seat next to him and taken his hand. He was very tactile of course, with everyone. But this one, this taking of the hand like this, was different. Somehow it had an erotic charge that they were both fully aware of.





	

Hey.

Hey.

It's unusual that he's sitting alone at the back of the bus. He looks tired and, for some reason, especially thin. His expression doesn't change, but a hint of a smile glints in his eyes for a second.

He sits down next to him, thigh pressing into his thigh and he feels his body relaxing against his body, immediately shifting angle subtly so he's more open to him.

That's the thing. His younger teammate, and friend, is always so open to him that it makes his heart ache in a way that tells him it's not some fleeting thing.

Today he's pretty quiet. Which is unusual. Normally he's the life of the party. The loudest, the most animated, the ringleader. The first one on the dance floor, the first one to get up on the stage to sing some awful karaoke.

A little unsettled by his silence, he glances over. His eyes are closed.

Are you alright?

He nods in response, eyes still closed. He also then reaches out and places a hand lightly on his hand. Pats it twice casually, reassuringly.

He wishes his hand was not trembling like it is, lightly but definitely. When he touches him, he can't help getting nervous and excited as hell. This is sometimes a problem because he touches him often.

He feels a gentle squeeze on his hand, and his stomach lurches at the same moment that the bus starts moving with a little lurch of its own.

It makes him suddenly aware of their other teammates all around. The buzz of their voices is low and a little somber. They won today's game with a spectacular scoreline, but one of them left in an ambulance.

He gazes down at his hand, warm caramel brown, lying comfortably on his own pale, white one.

He's often imagined that contrast of colours in his mind. He sighs and tries to look away. He's annoyed with himself.

He needs to feel in control.

He must have sighed loudly because his eyes fly open. He catches him staring at his face. He smiles knowingly, his tired eyes staring to sparkle with light.

It's happened before. A version of this. Two seasons ago. Going back home from their Champions League victory, he'd slipped into the seat next to him and taken his hand. He was very tactile of course, with everyone. But this one, this taking of the hand like this, was different. Somehow it had an erotic charge that they were both fully aware of.

He'd whispered something.

You're amazing.

It was something like that. Something simple like that, that had made butterflies flutter inside his stomach. About a million of them.

And after that. Always an extra touch, always lingering fingers trailing over his skin, always a soft weight on the small of his back, always a gentle but firm grip around his waist pulling him a little closer.

And he'd responded of course. How could he help it? He melted into every touch, he easily went where he was pulled, and he enjoyed his body against his every time he clung to him a little too long. He pulled him to him too, jumped into his arms every chance he got. Gave him playful little tugs on his hair. This one he loved the most. No one was allowed to touch his hair, except for him. Not that permission was explicitly given, just that he never objected.

What?

He sounds defensive when he says it, and that's exactly what he's trying to do. Defend himself. Against those eyes that gaze at him hungrily - green-brown, and occasionally gold as the sun filters in through the window.

I was just trying to nap. You're the one staring at me.

He laughs a little, that throaty laugh.

Yeah I was. So what?

So nothing. I'm delighted.

Why's that?

Their voices have dropped to hoarse whispers. Talking bullshit, and it doesn't matter what they say, what words they use. So long as they are dragged closer together, bodies leaning into each other, knees touching. Hands twisted but still holding on to each other, except tighter now. Closer and closer, until their foreheads are pressed together and their lips are a mere breath apart.

What?

Nothing.

A little laugh follows, the breath tickling his lips.

He'd showered after the game of course, but he's so sweaty and sticky now.

Something sudden takes over him, over them both, when he stops smiling and regards him seriously.

The distance closes easily, the lips collide. He's opening his mouth only to breathe but immediately, a probing tongue enters his mouth. With a gasp he is kissing back. Everything is so hot, including his mouth, his tongue, his hands that are suddenly all over his face, neck, and under his t-shirt.

For his part, he can only cling to the cotton of his t-shirt, as if he would die if he let go.

Lips are clinging to lips. Tongues are lapping tongues. 

And just as suddenly it stops because they really can't breathe. Foreheads are still pressed together. And open mouths pressed together, just breathing, panting.

His whole body is shaking with excitement and arousal but really, he has no idea which body is his, where it ends, where the other body begins.

He reaches out both his hands and finds he's reaching too. They entwine their fingers together. 

The bus comes to a sudden stop. They've reached the airport.

Immediately the buzz of voices and people starting to stand up. He notices how he closes his eyes as they separate from each other.

And then he gets up, reaches for his luggage, and leaves the bus quickly, not looking down, not looking at him.

He can't.

He needs to feel in control.

Only when he's outside, walking towards the terminal, does he glance back quickly. He's with a group of their teammates, being himself, joking.

They don't sit together on the plane. But shortly after they take off and the seatbelt signs have been turned off, he notices him heading towards the toilets.

He doesn't even think about it. He just stands up and starts moving in the same direction. It's like he's not even in control of his own actions.

He's seen which bathroom he went into, and he looks down at the handle of the door. It's not locked. Gently opening the door, he slips in and locks it behind him.

He's sitting on the little counter next to the sink. As soon as he sees him, a big smile lights up his face. He spreads his legs wider and gestures to him.

Again, it's as if he has no control over his own movements. He just goes to him and slides between his thighs. Tight space, yet enough to manoeuvre a little. Immediately his hands are all over his body, fingers skimming his skin, drawing him closer.

They kiss again, this time harder, sloppily, teeth clashing desperately. They stop for breath. He jokes.

You can shower afterwards.

He glances to the side at the little shower cubicle. He's never used one of those. He likes to take his time in the shower, and that would be impossible during a flight. He's always wanted him in the shower, he's jerked off plenty to that image. That'll have to wait.

Right now his long legs are wrapped tightly around his waist. They continue making out. He's bending down and sucking underneath his jaw. Moans are escaping both of them now.

He slides down from the counter, and as soon as he does so, their hard cocks press into each other. They both go into a kind of frenzy. Kissing, and stroking, and grinding up against each other.

Soon they are both fumbling at buttons impatiently, until their cocks are touching each other, pressed up bare against each other.

Hot, hard, leaking.

It's a relief to have his hard cock released from his jeans. But it's also agony wanting more, wanting release. 

They're rubbing up against each other hard, fast, intently. Gripping each other tightly, tongues licking up faces, necks. He grips his hair tightly. Their cocks are hard and slick, sliding against each other.

And then they come. They both try to muffle their moans. 

His heart is beating so fast. 

Bliss washes over him as they slump against each other, breaths quick, and then slowing down.

He cleans them both up. He wants to do it, and he lets him. 

Then he draws him into his arms. Words are impossible. He cradles his face and gazes down with the tenderest look in those hazel eyes. It makes his heart hurt, and he closes his eyes.

He feels his warm mouth on his mouth. He parts his lips and feels the tip of his tongue sliding in softly.

They're both breathing deeply now.

He goes back to his seat. Hoping no one noticed anything. Hoping their moans weren't too loud. He slips into his seat and presses the button to make it recline. He closes his eyes, feeling as if a wave is crashing over him.

*


End file.
